


i'd be pretty dumb not to (fall for you)

by orphan_account



Category: IT (2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - No Pennywise (IT), Denial of Feelings, F/M, Feelings Realization, First Love, M/M, Teen Angst, but they're like canonically 13-14, kinda background reddie, rated T for languange
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-17
Updated: 2020-02-17
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:08:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22770769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: It’s not a lot to think about, but Bill has yet to understand as to why he’s always so inclined when things involve Stanley Uris, and Stan alone.Or, easily: Bill has a lot of thoughts.
Relationships: Bill Denbrough/Beverly Marsh, Bill Denbrough/Stanley Uris
Comments: 8
Kudos: 69





	i'd be pretty dumb not to (fall for you)

**Author's Note:**

> Warning! — A single use of homophobic language.

The first dawn of summer of 1988 comes and Bill immediately knows that he’s in love.

It’s not a strange feeling nor it took him by surprise— a careful deliberation as he inserts another loose change into a vending slot— he learned of it through countless watches of romantic re-runs on his television with his mom. The symptoms are most than not likely to be: You’d feel as if your heart were about to burst at any moment when you’re in close proximity; you’d be constantly looking for them; it’s hard to act like something is nothing around them; you wouldn’t be able to think of anything aside from everything that has to do with them, and those are just a few to be named.

He has had those symptoms. In and out. All day long.

Bill stands numb on his feet, watches as the number he pushed on prompts a rattling reaction out of the machine. It ends with a light thud and Bill reaches in to grab a can of sweet cider, apple flavored.

The can is soaked with the cold, contrasts to the humid air and streaking relentless sun, it streams onto his arm and drips down on the concrete with every step and yet his palms are sweatier than ever.

Ah, yes. Being in love does this to a person too: makes any mundane action into consideration and mulls over it for no particularly rational reason.

_It’s stupid,_ Bill tells himself.

Beverly Marsh enjoys a cold beverage. Apples remind him of her.

The back alley is only a two-minute walk from the nearest vending machine and in these short while, Bill has managed to come on term with the quick realization while simultaneously pulls on muscles by all the jitters.

“Hoy, Big Bill! You got us drinks?” Richie says aloud, sitting on stacks of abandoned crates. This directs all of his other friends’ attentions towards him.

Bill easily raises the single can in hand and earns disapproving noises from Richie. It doesn’t last long, never has, because Richie almost always diverts away to talk their ears off about something else.

He goes to stand by Ben’s side, a person away from Beverly, who’s giving sly smiles and remarks to back up Eddie’s retort on everything Richie has to offer and Bill is just—

He grips on the cider a little bit tighter, especially when she tilts to the side and looks at him, a soft look conjuring up her face, with her ever-loving green eyes and slight pursed of her lips, freckles dusted yet aligned and her hair— her _hair,_ if anything the bright red curls frames Beverly _perfectly_ and it’s almost too much for thirteen year old Bill to feel, opposed to how nine year old Bill who knew close to nothing when they kissed as a part of the school play.

Bill, finally working up the courage, cuts Eddie’s prolonging riposte on how Richie is a fucking nuance, and _you gotta be shitting me, Rich! Do you know how essential hygiene is, it’s contributive to the way of life and you wouldn’t know that since that shirt has been stuck on you for three da—_

“B-Bev,” Bill calls, “Would you c-c-care for a... cider?”

Beverly doesn’t take her time and toys with Bill. She’s got dusted cheeks and a contagious grin when she reaches out and says, “Thanks, Bill.” and Bill falls for her more.

At some point of the exchange, their fingers brushed, just slightly and if he’s not imagining things, they stay like that for a second longer, and Bill has to calm his breathing.

A wolf-whistle from Richie is enough to break the quiet, as he and Eddie both exchange looks. Ben, on the other hand, looks solemn.

He has no idea why.

Something, or rather someone’s feet, knocks at his leg.

It’s Stan’s.

Stan, who’s been awfully quiet, who’s sitting near Richie on the lowest of crates that Bill has to glance down to see him.

“You do know Derry’s apple cider is _not_ something to die for, right?” It’s quiet but loud enough that it doesn’t attract and abrupt conversations from the others.

Bill grunts. “Says y-you.”

And Stan has got this knowing, teasing look. He knocks his feet against Bill’s own this time.

It feels nice. Bill has no idea why either.

“I, for one, prefer juice boxes. Melon ones.”

And Bill could _see_ it, because Melons are fresh and full of life, _so lively—_ it easily reminds him of Stan. He shakes his head, nudging his foot with Stan’s once more.

When he looks up, he locks eyes with Beverly, all warm and tender in the midst of the summer heat.

It’s the second week of summer and Bill is early to their meeting site.

Stan is already there too, waiting on his parked bike. The juice box has already lost its coolness and it’s bound to be not as good. But the widening eyes and muttered ‘thank you’ is something else entirely Bill appreciates.

—

They’re all sitting in a circle, on four long logs that are placed conveniently in the middle of a wide grass-field.

It’s the last day of summer before school starts.

Bill doesn’t think he’s ready for it. And by the looks of it, he doesn’t think any of them are. It’s scary and inhumane and drills a pit in Bill’s stomach. They have to face the lack of authoritarian uses in public schools and to be tormented by Bowers and his gang, by Greta and her crew, the former which acts as a tool for the latter to occur.

Bill doesn’t want to be scared but in reality, he is. For himself. For his _friends._

The scars carved onto Ben’s abdomen has yet to fully heal, the scars spat and thrown left a bitter taste everywhere.

_Fags. Freaks. Fairies. Fucking losers._

The last encounter they had was the day they also befriended Mike— the homeschooled kid— and it’s the first time they’ve ever fought back and won too. It’s an imbalance ratio, far way off, yet the following days were full of fun and everything summer break represents.

They enjoyed the fair, the celebration of independence where Bill’s family were present and Georgie took an immediate liking to Beverly and _how cool her hair is_ and nothing could get any better than that.

But reality checked in and Bill weighs concerns on his shoulders.

Distress must’ve been evident on his face because Richie reaches out to pat on the small of his back, then proceeds to say, “Pull your head out of your ass, it’s going to be awesome!” and Bill is met by six amounts of equally concerned eyes and more assuring lifts of lips.

Stan is seated across from him, feet’s away, sandwiched between Mike and Ben. And when Bill’s gaze meets Stan’s— they always do, for some reason— Stan is mouthing something and that something puts a smile on his face.

_We’ll all be okay._

—

Turns out a summer love doesn’t span out into something more, doesn’t bloom into a love story longed for the ages.

They’re by the quarry, sunset’s looming over and under different circumstances, could be the most romantic place and time in small, small Derry.

But that’s the thing. Bill isn’t dejected, isn’t going to running around calling out Beverly’s name over and over. He’s _sad_ and feels like there could’ve been something that he could do to fight for it but that’s that.

“Hey, it’s okay,” Beverly reassures him, her palm is soft against Bill’s cheek.

“We-we’ll still be friends, ye-yeah?”

And Beverly laughs like the way she always does whenever Bill says something so obviously true.

“Of course, silly. You and me, William and Beverly, friends for life.”

And that what makes her so, _so_ endearing and what makes Bill love her even more.

Days later, during lunch break, Ben is cluttered up in his due assignment when Beverly slides up next to him, bumping shoulders together.

His friends are _oblivious_.

It’s only when they’ve gotten the time to hang out together again, all seven of them, that Mike points out the obvious and Richie just explodes— going on about how Bill is _supposedly_ his best friend and best friends are _supposedly_ tell each other everything.

But the ghosting grin on Richie’s face tells him that he’s not entirely... _in the wrong,_ so Bill doesn’t allow himself to contemplate.

“Told you,” Stan teases, low and reserved, and somehow Richie’s voice just drowned out and Stan’s all Bill could hear, “that cider tastes like shit.”

Bill makes a face at that and nudges the other’s knee with his, unmoving, “You’re s-s-shit.”

“Wow, Bill, I’m flattered.”

Stan doesn’t move, keeping their knees touching throughout the rest of the afternoon, and if anyone notices, well, they don’t say anything about it.

—

Bill stares up at his ceiling— old, cracked, and covered with newly dried paint— one that has been his skies for more than a decade.

Bill stares and _stares_ , and broods over why his breakup with Beverly Marsh doesn’t knock him sideways such as the ways he has seen countless of times on television.

—

Eddie isn’t allowed to go out since it’s fever season, and of course, Richie goes out of his way to help him climb out of the window of his bedroom at eight.

Bill and Stan are there too as emotional support. More voluntarily than not.

At times like this, Bill would frown thinking of Eddie’s mom and the things she’s put Eddie through. At times like this, Bill is full of gratitude that his family is his.

They’re standing out in the dark, under a big tree that grew right beside Eddie’s bedroom window and it’s actually kind of comical looking at his friends.

“I am _not_ going to trust my life in the hands of Richard freaking Tozier! Rich, don’t do anything, I swear, I prefer one of you down there.“

The hushed-yelling makes its way to Bill’s ears and Stan’s supposedly, since he quirks an eyebrow up at Richie, who’s already on the tree facing Eddie with an exasperated look.

“Eds, dear fuck, just hurry—”

“Beep beep, Richie.”

Bill has to bite down on his tongue to hold back himself from laughing. He turns his head away, only to find Stan gazing at the chirps and earthly sounds and it’s a calming sight. 

They’re all a year older now, going on fifteen, and to be honest, Bill doesn’t want to grow up too fast.

“You th-think E-Ed-Eddie’s go-going to come d-down soon?”

Stan just shrugs, quite absentmindedly, like he’s caught up in his own thoughts.

“I’d rather be out here than at home.” and that sparks up a curiosity punching at Bill’s gut.

“W-why?”

“Nothing,” Stan answers, sighing, “just dad being dad.” then turns to Bill as if he just hadn’t put thoughts and an abundance of them into Bill’s head, “Give Eddie a few minutes,” he adds.

But Bill is... Bill isn’t thinking about Eddie now. Bill wants to _know_ about Stan and what could possibly be happening that it puts a look of disdain on him, and he doesn’t like it one bit.

He doesn’t ask Stan about it though, not when it would only upset him further.

So, Bill humors him. “I-it’s l-like w-wa-watching Rom-Romeo and Juliet.” and it kind of is.

Richie lends a hand, out and hanging in the air, and Eddie looks uncertain, yet he’s already climbing out.

“You were like that too, you know. Once upon a time,” Stan says, as nothing but a statement despite the unfamiliar ring of his tone, one that Bill has never heard.

Bill and Beverly on a summer’s end.

“Once...” Bill echoes, and looks over at Stan.

Bill and Beverly, just a summer tale.

And Bill’s okay with that, he’s more than okay with that.

—

“You don’t have to stay, really,” Stan says for the umpteenth time.

The sun shines through the open windows— a hued mix of an afternoon sky and upcoming dawn colors the room in orange and red, and it falls on Stan and the bounce of his curls like stars would lustre the dark hours.

Bill sits straighter, more firm than he’d usually do.

“I w-want t-to.” and he stands by his ground, turns his seat around: arms laid on top of the plastic chair, legs on either side, a table cluttered with papers and stationaries between them.

Stan stares at him for a second, his eyes unreadable and eye-bags prominent, and Bill hold his gaze a little longer, a little more curious— then he looks away, glancing down, clearing his throat and Bill chews on the insides of his cheek.

Stan has his moments of mirth, no doubt there. Bill has experiences with it firsthand— even more so lately.

But when it gets like this, Bill tipping the chair forward to lean into the gaping space, Bill listening tentatively to the rambles about a brown thrasher making home in the nest box that Stan visits, Bill inserting comments in hushed voices in-between and Stan either snorting or covering a laugh with the pursed of his lips at how glaringly dumb they are,

Stan getting caught up in the work he has to do in that favoring Bill to trace outlines of him, warmth settles in his stomach, his chest, _everywhere_.

The quiet between them has always been comforting.

—

It’s fifth period right now, only one more until school’s done for the day, which means both Bill and Ben got fifteen minutes to lounge about before the next class.

They hangout at the school’s library and the place is cramped and smells like drinks that gone bad, but it’s the only place where they wouldn’t be interrupted— far, far at the end of the isle where unclassified books plunged into three high cases. They’re sitting on the floor, Bill leaning back on bookcase and Ben on the other, a song by The Carpenters plays through Ben’s laid headphones and it is accompanied by soft hums from Ben himself.

It hasn’t been like this since the start— _no_ , Bill and Ben almost never spend time just the two of them.

The first three weeks of study period went like this: Bill, with his jean shorts and over-plaids, roamed around exactly like how a new student would do on their first day. Except Bill’s practically a veteran at this point.

He stumbled upon Ben one day on his way towards the library and just sort of, tagged along. Ben never seems to mind.

“Th-They’re cool.”

Ben looks up from his reading, his brows lifting. Bill points to the player, “C-Carpenters.”

As if the gears in Ben’s head starts churning smoothly, he beams, eyes seemingly disappear into thin lines.

“Yeah! Gotta take a break from pop for a bit.” With that, he goes back to dive into his book, nose deep, and his strumming hum fills the void again.

Seconds seem to pass by in a flash, the mindless drumming of Bill’s fingers against his thigh is put to a halt.

Not a minute has passed that Ben closes the book— all neat and tidy, set nicely on his lap.

“Bill?” Ben’s voice is timid now, like he’s afraid anyone around would listen in.

Bill lifts his legs, hugging them close to his chest, “Yeah?”

Ben chews on his lip, eyes darting back and forth and anywhere but at Bill, “You and Beverly... what was it like?”

He’s taken aback by the abrupt question, but more by how it spilled from Ben’s mouth.

Ben sounds so incredibly _small_ , it feels like it has taken a lot of courage for him to even be able to start up the topic at hand.

“W-well...” Bill fusses, confused at how to respond. He thinks back to their summer rendezvous— not really a rendezvous, but it was thrilling, everything with Beverly is— he thinks back to how nervous he had felt even though he had easily known his feelings, how reciprocation had made him feel like the happiest boy, and how by the end it was not close to perfect, but Bill knows it was the summer he’ll cherish.

To answer Ben, he says, “It w-was m-me-memorable, like I’m just... glad, th-that it’s-s her. W-why? If you d-don’t mind me a-asking,” he mumbles that last bit.

Ben’s facial expression goes from a puzzling one, one that Bill couldn’t quite pinpoint, to being alarmed in the haste of mere seconds, and he ducks his head, scratches the back of it like avoiding eye contact with Bill could get him out of this situation.

“I, uh...” Ben fiddles. With his hands and his fingernails, and he holds his head up again, and Bill tries to give him the most assuring smile he could manage, “I-it’s o-oh-kay if you—“

Ben shakes his head.

“No, Bill, I want to let it out.” and this time, Ben sounds more sure of himself. Bill’s chest heaves with relief.

“Do you ever get this... _strong pull_ towards somebody?” Ben says, “It’s like gravity trying to say: screw everyone else! I’m about to make this boy churn and long for somebody so close, yet so far,”

“I’m going to make this boy wander around and everywhere he looks, he’ll only see and think of that someone,”

“I’m going to fill this boy’s chest with comfort and palpitating beats all through his veins and leave him cold with his thoughts,”

“This boy will read too much into things that aren’t there, and wish there is possibly something for him to hold onto,”

“I’m going to make this boy helpless in the hands of devotion and weigh him down by love’s feet.” Ben concludes, sounding far more drained than he previously did, looking far more tired than Bill would let on.

He fixes his position, legs now crossed and he reaches forward, taking Ben’s hand in his— their hands sweaty and viscid despite the dropping temperature of the library— and Bill gives it a squeeze, conveying more than what he could say.

Ben reciprocates, his smile isn’t as bright, but it lightens the growing rupture Bill’s feeling.

_You don’t have to sell me, ‘cause you overwhelm me_

_I’ve made up my mind for a lifetime_

_I believe you_

And Bill is left to stare holes into the headphones.

_Blind faith makes me follow you, I’d live in a cave if you wanted to_

—

Bill is freaking out.

Bill’s freaking out because as it turns out, he has absolutely zero shits figured out and he has none of the acknowledgement about what all this means, for Bill himself, specifically.

The things he’s feeling... it’s almost as worst as the stormy day two summers ago when Georgie played outside in the pouring rain and Bill, the big brother he’s supposed to be, lying about being sick, and so he left him unsupervised, unprotected.

Georgie went _missing_ for more than two hours, past the limit Bill had told him to come back.

He had blanched, an increasingly ill twist of his insides and a forming lump on his throat stayed put that he couldn’t even stutter a word— couldn’t stutter out Georgie’s name— as he ran outside, an endless time searching.

He found Georgie through a neighbor, a few houses away from his, who ushered him out from the blizzard and into the house and told him how Georgie’s here because he’s scared to go back because then his big brother would get mad about _S.S. Georgie_ getting drained into the sewer and Bill, he— He enveloped Georgie, tight and unrelenting, and he _apologized_. Over and over until the storm died down.

He’s feeling the same. The same ill, gnawing knots, curled up and staring at the place Ben was sitting not five minutes ago, bidding silent goodbye and headed for class.

What would Stan think of this— _think of him?_

_Fuck._

He’s royally fucked.

When he finally packs up his stuffs, his friends are already waiting by the sidewalk, caught up in their own chatters. Ben looks at him though, worry creases in his brows, and Bill just waves a hand, dismissive.

Stan also looks at him. Plenty of times.

Bill, however, never meets his eyes. He’s not going to throw aside a lifetime of friendship for some stupid feelings.

Unlike what his friends think of him— brave, firm, lionhearted, a _leader—_ it’s the complete opposite of everything.

He’s never been more scared of anything in his life.

—

So, he avoids Stan.

Or, Bill tries to for the following two days.

It’s fairly as easy as it sounds when Stan is a grade behind, making most of the hours on school grounds easily passed by. When they do get the chance to sit together, the six of them, is during lunch breaks.

They don’t have a sitting arrangement— never do. But opposed to where he usually sits, Bill squeezes himself in between Richie and Beverly, a preferably wrong choice since it just caused him a direct front-to-front with Stan. Bill’s throat itches.

None of them suspects anything though, if anything, it’s going by like how it normally does: a dash of complaints here and there, a little of witty banter between Richie and Beverly, side comments from Ben and Bill, more of actual banter between Richie and Eddie, and Stan who’s automated to snarky remarks and ragging smiles, still does.

Bill catches Stan’s eyes, and the dubious expressions he makes at the things Richie says. He’s stern when Stan taps on his leg, eyes pointing down at the juice box that his fingers are wrapped around, and Bill’s appetite suddenly simmers into nothing.

“I-I- gotta go,” Bill stands abruptly, sandwich half-eaten abandoned on the table, and they’re looking at him, confused, “Th-th-things-s t-to do.” and he walks out, ignoring the loud chorus of his name, and the gnawing clutch at his chest.

Bill takes it all back, it’s not as easy as it sounds.

—

Bowers is there the next time Bill wanders down alone the hallway long of lockers, his goons nowhere to be seen and somehow, that unnerves him even more.

“No shitbags to keep you company, huh, Billy Boy?” he jibes with a gruff, syllables loud and louder with each rising tone.

In any other state of affairs, Bill would stop on his tracks, looks at him dead in the eyes, and sputters, “G-go pi-piss off, Bowers.” instead, he keeps his head down, grips hard on his knuckles, and bites on his cheek until it’s swollen.

—

This spans out throughout the week. ‘This’ being equivalent to ‘skirting around Stan all the while trying to act like he’s _not_ skirting around him’— and it’s _hard_ because Bill is doing all this to keep things at bay, the sitting at opposite ends, the halted steps, the dodged eye-contacts that lasted longer than deemed usual, the avoidant accidental-yet-non-accidental touching, the crisp conversations— all just seems... pointless.

Because things aren’t at bay, they aren’t even close. They’re still prying away at thunderstorms and huge ocean waves because Bill doesn’t know how to handle these kind of things.

And this, by the end, inevitably caused Stan, who has never let a day past without cracking funs at Bill, to went about.

Stan, distancing himself away from Bill that Bill is caught up with it the moment he stopped trying to catch his attention with either the expressive glances or the leg-kicking during lunch.

Their friends seem to catch on one by one, though they never pry; they all just seem to send him concerning smiles and worry in their eyes, and at one point, Mike and Richie had pulled him aside, and just, hugged him.

“You can talk to me about anything, you know that right?” Richie had said, “It’s okay not to be okay.”

If it wasn’t for the fact that the others were waiting on them— Eddie, Ben, Beverly, Stan, _Stan_ — Bill would’ve had cried there and then.

—

It’s only been two weeks but it feels like stretches of a long month wrapped into one.

—

They’re standing in the depths of open woods, bikes miles away from where their footprints lead.

It’s Sunday, which means it’s their _Losers’ Club Leisure Time_ that ultimately translates to: a two-to-five hour of fruitless regards and pulling on each other’s hair. They haven’t gotten to do this in _weeks_ since the semester started, and now, standing in the entrance of their clubhouse, Bill exhales.

“Fuck! I’ve missed you, _ma chérie_ ,” Richie, bad impersonation aside, dives in— literally, all jumps and screams and long limbs— onto the hammock, not a care in the world even as the dusts all but keeps in place.

Mike laughs at this from where he’s seated and says, “It _has_ been awhile.” and it’s quick to be followed by Eddie’s scoff and his, “You’re so disgusting, that thing is covered in dirt and shit, it’ll give you like— I don’t know— rashes?”

Richie snorts, “I don’t see you complaining the last time we’re here.”

“Are you serious right now? That’s different—“

“The hell’s the difference?” and this spurts a quarrel, not five minutes in their hideout, Eddie getting up from next to Bill, face warps in disbelief and arms flying in gesticulation, and Bill tuning them out, out of pure concern for his head.

Beverly is leaning on one of the stumps holding up the place, a cigarette in hand. She slants slightly, speaking with her lips pull up and low, “Well, we’ve gotten that coming.”

Bill doesn’t know what has changed, he never sees it, in the back of his mind it’s always been like this.

It’s always been like this with Richie and Eddie, ever since they were little, when they were just four socially descended kids who stuck to each other like glue and Beverly’s comment is so teasingly accurate that it makes Bill smile.

“How is it g-going? Wo-working in the lib-b-brary, I mean.” Bill turns to Mike, to which he answers with a modest grin, “Nothing to brag about. It beats working with my uncle, at least.”

“Does that mean we’ll be getting extended due date?” Stan says, brows raising.

Mike makes a face, face scrunched up and eyebrows knitted, indulging Stan’s question— seeming to poke fun, “ _Suuure_ , it’s not like it’ll get me laid off anyways.”

It works because it pulls a laugh out of Stan, not roaring and moving shoulders, but teeth and light and incredibly lively. And Bill, for one, finds the ground beneath more endurable to look at than Stan himself.

Ben looks over at him, and there’s something in his eyes and his mouth— inaudible— like Ben knows something.

“I heard the library is putting up computers, is it true?” Ben chimes in from the swing.

Mike hums in response.

“About time!” and if Bill’s not seeing things, Beverly’s smile just pans out even more.

His… _situation_ with Stan doesn’t necessarily have a heavy impact on their dynamic as whole, but it’s still there. Through little nooks and crannies, the faults are visible to anyone with a willing sense of deduction. Like— for illustration purposes— three days ago, Bill managed to fuck up a test he’s been so busy _not_ studying and it became something his friends had chaffed about during lunch hour, even Stan cracked a knowing grin more often than not.

It’s when Richie said something of the lines of _hey, Bill, think it’s time you join me and Stanley over there for study sessions_ in a joking manner that had killed the mood. That, and Bill’s slipped smile. Mostly the latter— definitely the latter.

Nonetheless, Bill thinks he could manage it this time.

He thinks wrong.

Stan has gotten up on his feet, towards a corner and pulls out an old biscuit tin from the crooked shelf Ben had set up. He holds it close to his chest with an arm, plugging out the lid, then sets the lid back on the shelf.

He roams around, giving out a pair to every each and one of them just as he always does. Richies never takes it though and this time doesn’t differ, Eddie’s the one who snatched it from Stan and puts it on him. When he gets to Bill last, the shower cap already in hand, Bill holds his breath. “S-Spiders,” he says, taking it from Stan, and wears it too.

“Spiders,” Stan mirrors, the small smile plays by his lips is as faint as his voice. Bill looks away, only to see five other eyes staring, to which fast are to dissolve.

Stan doesn’t move, though. He stays where he stands, and Bill could _feel_ that he has something to say.

And when he does, it’s something Bill has dreaded.

“Can I talk to you? Please?”

Bill, despite all of his urges, nods his head, and that’s all it takes for their friends to climb out of the hideout, shower caps still attached to their heads.

Stan is wary and Bill doesn’t like seeing him like this, _hates_ that he’s the sole cause of it. He steals glances at Bill, his jaw tightening more so, and when he finally takes a seat near him, Bill has never wanted to pull someone so close yet push them far at the same time.

“I don’t— I— shit, uhm,” he stammers, settling down with, “Just— just be frank with me,” Stan says, followed by a sigh.

“Is there anything, absolutely anything, that you want to tell me?”

A lump forms in Bill’s throat, he feels plunged and suffocated, and the look that Stan’s attributing is plunging him deeper: sore, tentative eyes and equally tired slump of his lips that Bill hasn’t gotten the chance to truly look at as of late.

_Yes._ There are so many, an abundance of unfulfilled words, wanting to spill.

He wants to tell Stan that he’s scared about the possibility that what he had felt for Beverly might had been a false sense of security; that whenever he sees Beverly, an overwhelming guilt threatens to swallow him whole; he’s scared over the fact that he didn’t have a fucking clue about these— these, _feelings_ until Ben had drawn them out; that he might be feeling this way even way before Beverly;

He feels hopeless because if he ever gets this out of his system, he wouldn’t be able to hold on and he might lose Stan for good.

So. Many, that Bill wants to tell Stan and express _everything_ but he just, _can’t_.

“N-no, nothing,” Bill heaves out, holding their gaze steady and heart’s beating so fucking loud.

But Stan holds his composure, saying, “Okay. Then, I suppose you’re breaking my heart for no apparent reason, Big Bill?” And there it is. His satirical-self, contradicting with how soft-spoken he is, even when Bill’s making things harder.

Bill chews on the insides of his cheek, averting his eyes.

When Bill doesn’t say anything, Stan moves. He slides closer, making sure Bill’s okay with it, then moves until their knees are touching, and Bill lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding.

“How about this?” Stan compromises, “I’ll ask you a question, and if you don’t want to answer just...” he extends a hand— _my fucking god, is he—_ “squeeze my hand.”

“S-Stan,” _don’t fuck around_ , “you’re kid-kidding.”

Stan tips his head, just a slight, brows wrinkled. “Why would I be kidding? Just take my hand.” He brings his hand forward, in a more prominent view, only for Bill to stare at it for seconds too long.

Stan wouldn’t toy with him. So, Bill, albeit begrudgingly, lays open his palm on top of Stan’s, and not a second longer, Stan angles his hand, filling in the gap of his fingers with his own and _shit shit shit_ — this is a bad idea, Bill feels as if his breath got stuck in his throat and his throat is closing up, and he can’t even fucking speak—

“Are things okay at home?”

Bill purses his lips, gulps down everything, then says, “All g-great.”

“What about school— History?” Stan teases.

“It w-w-was one test, I-I’ll m-manage.”

“Phys Ed? _”_

Bill bites down a smile. “Now you’re j-just s-shitting on me.” Stan snickers at that.

“What about us? Are things okay between us?”

And Bill suddenly feels weak. He grips onto Stan’s hand, tight, the atmosphere around them becomes tight as well.

“Bill…” Stan says, “We’re not okay, we’re— we’re like fucking strangers,” a pause and Stan gives his hand a squeeze, “I miss you.”

At this moment, right here, right now, all Bill wants to do is pull him close, _so close_ , his nose buried in the blade of Stan’s shoulder as he breathes in all there is— because this is what he has longed for, for _weeks_ and possibly more. He wants to breathe him in, wants to mutter that he’s _sorry, and he misses him too, so much_. But that’s not possible, not when Bill can’t even muster to _move_.

He bites, and chews his cheek, the gnawing distress eats at his stomach.

“I can’t,” Bill says. And it is the absolute truth. He absolutely _can’t_.

“Did I do something? Is it because of something I did?” and Bill is quick to retort, “N-no! It’s n-never your f-f-fault, S-Stan.”

Stan turns to look at him, right in the eyes, and he looks so _tired_ , “It feels like it is.” For the first time in awhile, it’s Stan who looks away, yet his clutch around Bill’s fingers never loosens.

“I never m-me-meant f-for you to f-f-feel this w-way.”

Stan is quiet for a moment, then he replies, smaller than what’s familiar, “I know, I just don’t understand why we can’t talk this out.”

This springs something out of Bill. Maybe it’s Stan, who’s more vulnerable than he had seen before, maybe it’s his doubts and twitches that he restraints from latching onto, maybe it’s a little bit of both. But he finds himself saying, “We c-can, but I... I w-won’t be able t-to forgive my-s-self if it g-goes sideways.” and it lifts an unforeseen weight on his chest.

“Try. Lay it on me,” Stan says, and Bill, putting pressure on Stan’s skin with the tip of his thumb, tries to, all the while looking nowhere near Stan.

“F-f-fuck, I-I— I’m c-con-confused, f-fucking c-confused,” Bill bites on his tongue, tasting the words slowly, “You r-rem-mem-membered l-last suh-summer?”

Stan answers with ease. He says, “Couldn’t forget if I tried,” as he keeps his posture strained, never slugged, and his free hand to dip in the curls that quirk out of the cap.

He doesn’t let go of Bill’s hand for a second.

“A-and the th-th-thing... with Bev, I w-was so sure of mys-s-self— of wh-what I had with h-her and I was f-f-fucking th-thirteen. B-but wh-when it was... over... I was _fine_ , I-I mean I th-thought I’d be mo-more _less fine_ , I di-didn’t tuh-try to— y-you know, win her b-back,”

“I-It’s like I knew th-that we were better off a-as f-fr-friends, a-and we are,”

Stan’s clutch relaxes, he’s not gripping on Bill’s hand, he’s actually _holding_ it— the pad of his thumb running along the plane of Bill’s.

“I g-guess I found out wh-why i-it w-was... e-easy and l-lo-los-s-lost my s-s-shit,” he muffles out a breath, forcing himself not to back out— not when he’s already so close, the raucous pounding deafening his ears is just another hiccup, a hindrance yet to be reconciled.

All there’s left to do is to look at the boy before him, a profession hanging by a thread— barely any fights to oppress— and struggles not to think about Stan’s soothing lines on his skin.

Bill’s shoulders shake, and he finds himself shuddering, his palms sweating, and most of everything, trying not to think about Stan when he is right here in front of Bill’s eyes... it inevitably invades his mind with something he had constantly evaded: the pushed-back thoughts of Stan, of everything him and everything that is his and Bill doesn’t want Stan to see him so—

_Scared shitless._

His heartbeat is all that he can hear, the pounding gets louder and louder that Stan could probably hear it making its way to jump out of Bill’s chest. He’s still confused and he’s still _scared_ because what if that lifted sense of weight is just something of an on-the-sprung moment? What if what’s waiting for him on the long run are the sideways he’d been dreading to come across?

Bill’s unsure of himself and when he looks at Stan, all tender with creases of worries slip between his brows and a small quirk of his lips, it’s actually the last fucking straw because—

“Y-you, and your s-s-stupid f-fuh-face and y-your stup-p-pid p-pipes a-and your— your— you! d-doing s-stupid sh-shits like th-this,” Bill says, rapid and all over the place as he raises their joint hands for a few seconds. His heart’s still hammering so loud. “And and and— the f-fact that you-you’re alwa-wa-ways there and I c-couldn’t f-f-fucking see i-it— I-I— I s-sh-shouldn’t be f-feeling l-like this be-because wha-what does this m-m-mean... what B-Bev and I had, what, what I had f-felt,”

Silence takes over them, with occasional shaky breaths from Bill and the sounds of nature— as their clubhouse isn’t exactly soundproof— fused with creaking woods under their feet, but this time the quiet isn’t doing Bill any well.

He thinks of Stan. All too much, all too consuming, all makes him lightheaded and pushes the limits off of his inability to shut off his thoughts and trembling, clammy hands— and Stan, he’s... he’s not _reacting._ He’s looking down at their hands— they’re still _holding hands—_ rubbing motions on Bill’s, he plays with his fingers, fiddles with them as they are no longer intertwined like tangled limbs.

He looks at Stan, looking at their hands, and Stan lets out a huff, a lot sounding like a resisted laugh.

“Your hand’s sweating like crazy,” says Stan as a mere statement, in an always soft tone. And then: “I still want to hold it anyway.”

Bill’s tremble gets caught in his throat, putting his train of thoughts to a halt and letting the softening pounds of his heart take over, allowing the supple roars of his guts to slowly push him into the depths of Stan’s constant grazes. Fingers sloping over fingers.

He’s a little less scared now, watching Stan being graced by the quirk of his lips and feeling how _gentle_ Stan is.

“Feelings are shit, they throw you all over the place. One second you’re all shits and giggles and enjoying how things are, one second later you’re staring into nothingness and wonders what went wrong when everything was just, felt like it was right.” Stan scratches on one of Bill’s fingers, before enrapturing it in a binding rack once again, Bill meeting halfway, then Stan looks directly into him, firm and understanding.

“We’re fourteen, basically _kids—_ I mean, I’m considered responsible once I’m thirteen but that doesn’t stop my dad from fussing over me. My point is that, from what I know, we’re still young, we’re going to make some mistakes,” Stan continues, never once breaking contact. “But things like feelings, if you feel it then you feel it.”

Stan presses closer, laying another hand on top of theirs for awhile, and Bill tries to even out his breathing.

“A-and what ab-about y-you?”

Stan huffs out a laugh, “What about me?”

“You s-s-said you like t-to h-ho-hold hands... with me.” Bill averts Stan’s eyes.

“Well, Bill, you said that you like me,” Stan replies, nudging their shoulders together.

It feels like how it should be, before all the shenanigans push at Bill’s head.

Bill chews on his cheek, feeling blood rushes to the tips of his ears. “I ne-never said that.”

“Really? I could’ve sworn you said something like that,” Stan joshes as he feigns a miffed sigh, “I don’t think my heart could handle the rejection.” and it results in Bill disentangling their fingers in exchange to elbow the other in the arm, quiet laughs filling up the space.

“I l-like h-ho-holding hands with you, t-too,” Bill says, a thin smile on his face, “so much.”

Stan looks thoughtful, lips parting and body turned, their shoulders no longer pressed together, and then an echo hammering at Bill’s chest: “So, so much.”

—

They’re back at the quarry after such a long-while, after school, and it’s Friday.

The air is cold and damp, especially after a swim and it prickles through Bill’s skin, sending shivers all over.

Stan plops down beside him, skin touching skin, and he’s laughing at Eddie and Beverly’s antics by the shore— pushing and pulling on each other— while Richie continues to pester the hell out of Ben, with Mike occasionally taking sides at each.

Bill grabs his backpack from the pile of thrown in clothings and attires, pulling out a smushed-looking juice box. His heart deflates.

But when Stan sees it, crumpled matching the creases of Bill’s brown and the pull of his lips, he grabs it with a smile, tapping on Bill’s fingers.

“Now this,” Stan says, slumping down to mush his cheek down on Bill’s shoulder blade, “is _the_ shit. Thank you, Big Bill.”

Bill looks down, his hair falls in his eyes and Stan’s curls brushes against the side of his face like a lump of wool Georgie used to throw at him— his hair smells of sunlit skies and fades of coconut milk, and Bill thinks it's a scent he could incessantly breathe in. “An-any-t-time, Stan.” 

And for now, it’s all that Bill needs.

**Author's Note:**

> i miss them so much :(


End file.
